nina turns 40

one bite makes you smaller

cruda

In Spanish, cruda means hangover. There's a great phrase, cruda moral which refers to what you get when you've done something naughty and you feel bad about it--a morality hangover if you will. I'm feeling rather cruda today myself, and no, it's not about any bad behavior on my part. It's the ice cream. I ate way too much of it last night, more than I've eaten in a very long time. There's something about ice cream, especially rich, dark, chocolate gelato from Gelatiamo that just turns off all reason and sense of having enough. I am so into the zen of my ice cream, I have become one with it, and therefore I simply forget to stop eating it.

And then there is the morning after. Yuck! Ugh! Waaaaa! My head hurts, my feet are dragging, I feel almost as gross as if I'd gone on a booze bender, except I never do that as I have no tolerance. For ice cream, my tolerance seems to be infinite.

So if I snap at you today when you mention I haven't posted any new fotos in ever so long, or if you notice that I'm looking a bit under the weather, you can blame it on the gelato, and on my dad, who refused to get me Dairy Queen once when I was a child, at which time I swore that when I was grown up I'd eat ice cream whenever I damn well wanted it. Looks like the last laugh is on me.

The kidlet's best buddy at school transferred to an elementary closer to his house, and things have never been quite the same. In the mornings before school he stands close to me and looks forlorn instead of running off to play. "Why are you so sad?" I ask him.

"Because nobody is playing with me" he replies. I don't mention that he could just as easily go up to someone and ask them to play as wait for someone to ask him. The chaos of the schoolyard is still a bit much for him, and once again I find myself missing the familiar confines of our preschool where everyone upon seeing us arrive, cried out the kidlet's name and rushed to show him something or invite him into their game.

I wish he were braver and less sensitive--ha! I wish the same of myself. He is too much like me. I know the pain that this is likely to cause him. I want to take that pain away, to give him the tools he needs to shield himself from those things that will hurt him, to give him the courage to play his own way, and not care if anyone wants to join him. How can I give to him the things I find impossible to give to myself?

I can bear my own heartache, but I have no idea how I will ever survive all of his.

bad, nina, BAD

Just because I didn't enter this month's Blogging For Books contest, it's is no reason not to go and read all the entries. I was remiss for not mentioning this earlier.

loot!

I love my birthday. Of course, technically my birthday isn't for almost two weeks, but it is my birthday month, which means the party has started and I'm on a roll--I scored some major loot last night at our annual family October Birthday Blowout.

We have many zany little family traditions around the October Birthdays, traditions which have driven in-laws and invited guests crazy over the years, but I love them with all my heart. The most important of these tradtitions, and dare I say the most fun, is the Playing of the Game. Each year my mother, annointed hostess of the Blowout, concocts a game that the birthday girls must play in order to earn access to said loot. I love the Playing of the Game so much because I have a brain full of useless trivia, a competitive streak as wide as the Mississippi, and when I win, which I often do, I get to open my prezzies first. Yes, I'm 42 years old this year. No, I don't care that I take an overly childish delight in my birthday. A girl's gotta take some childish delight in something, better my birthday than in poking passengers on the bus with sharp objects.

What fabulous loot did you score, nina, you ask? Why this and this for starters. I also got a beautiful beaded necklace, and some gorgeous earrings, and a cheese grater. (Hey, don't laugh--have you ever tried living without a cheese grater?)

I'm grateful that this year, unlike the last, I actually feel like celebrating, and I'm grateful for all the hard work that goes into these celebrations. My grandmother is 86, and I'm ever more aware that one day, we'll be celebrating her portion of the October Birthday Blowout in absentia. I don't want to dwell too much on that now, though. I just want to be here with my family, joyful in the simple things like chocolate cake and one more surprise to unwrap.

shades of brown

Yesterday was curriculum night at the kidlet's school. The eager parents filed into the classroom and sat down at their child's desk, knees poking into the air. The kidlet's teacher is young, and enthusiastic, and pretty, almost the stereotype of perfect kindergarten teacher. I was sitting there happily, reading the letter that the kidlet had composed to me for that evening, and admiring once again all the neato stuff they have in the classroom when the teacher said the dreaded words, "I want you all to go around the room and introduce yourselves, and say a little bit about your child."

While, like most parents, I adore talking about my kidlet, there is little more loathe to me than having to sit there and think of something clever to say on-the-spot while 25 people that I don't know very well are looking at me. I went dead last, which you would think would give me plenty of time to come up with the perfect little anecdote about the kidlet's kindergarten experience, but no, it just made me get more and more nervous. One by one the parents, usually the moms, told cute and funny stories about their magnificent offspring. When it was my turn, I babbled that I was nina mcblogger and my son is Multisyllabic-Mexican-first-name Long-Unfamiliar-Mexican last name, also known as kidlet, which got them all totally confused right from the start. Then I mentioned something about him liking to read, and he thought school was great, which I have no idea if it's true or not, since he doesn't usually tell me that much about it, but all the other parents said their kids thought school was great, and damned if my kid wasn't going to think so, too.

I was struck by how white we all were. Every damn one of us. Now there are brown kids in the kidlet's class, and kids whose parents are from France and Russia, and other kids with one parent who is a native Spanish speaker, so it's not like there is no diveristy at all, but there aren't any African-American kids, and those of us sitting in those tiny little chairs last night looked overly homogeneous. In real life, I want the kidlet to feel however he really feels about kindergarten, but in that setting the Stepford Mommy takes over, and I must conform.

I miss the diversity of our Preschool, I wonder if I shouldn't have chosen an elementary school in a more diverse neighborhood, I find it so hard to know sometimes if I am making all the Right Decisions for my child. Then I take a couple of breaths. I picked this school for its Spanish program, and focus on reading, I really like his teacher, who was in the Peace Corps prior to becoming an educator, and just so happens to be fluent in Spanish. Relax, Mommy. He does like school, and is doing well, and in his woo-woo after school daycare they focus on diversity, and individual expression, and the oneness of all living things. Funny how many times as a parent I have to keep reminding myself that it's all gonna be OK, I have to remember the way, the other night, the kidlet told me as he was drifting off to sleep, "Mom, I love you very very very very very very very very much."

in lieu of writing, a foto

Don't know how to break it to the women over at misbehaving, but in the kidlet's kindergarten class last week they did an exercise where each child announced something they were good at. Of the eleven boys in his class, five of them said, "I'm good at computers." Anyone want to hazard a guess at how many girls chimed in with the same respone? Yup, not a single one. Sigh

el cielo

I had coffee today with Kimberly of Music and Cats and she is just as lovely and fun to hang out with in person as you imagine her to be from reading her blog. It was my first time meeting a fellow blogger face to face, and we both agreed it felt rather like a first date. We recognized each other instantly, as I was pretty sure we would. We drank cafe cubano from this fine establishment, and we talked and talked and talked. Sweet, strong coffee and good conversation--I think I was in heaven. Then we went to the adjoining bookstore to browse around, and I finally purchased The Lovely Bones and decided I was, indeed, in heaven.

Too bad tomorrow's Monday, and I'll be planted squarely back on Earth.

in which our heroine gets her panties in a wad for nuthin'

My best friend's daughter celebrated her 4th birthday yesterday. Since the kidlet usually goes to his daddy's dad's house on Saturdays, we decided (well, he wanted to, and I reluctantly agreed) to invite him along. I figured this would be a gesture of good will and family harmony, especially since we've actually been getting along pretty well lately. Plus, he knows S. very well--we all shared an apartment in Mexico together, in his hometown lo those many years ago. I brought the kidlet to his dad's on Saturday morning, as usual, with an agreement to pick them up at 4pm. Shortly after three, as I am shopping for a present for the birthday girl (yeah, yeah, very last minute of me, I know), my cell starts its cute little vibration thing. Since I am speaking with the sales lady, and I don't recognize the incoming number, I reject the call--I am just so polite that way. Later, when I check it, I see it's a VM from V. who says they are out, have just started eating, and won't be available for me to pick them up until 5pm. I am furious. Furious. I didn't want to invite him to the damn party, he's being rude, this is an important event to the kidlet and to me, why can't he for once organize his life a little bit? blah blah blah etc. I am going off. I am remembering why I decided that I couldn't live in holy matrimony with this man anymore. I am recalling how no one drives me crazy quite like he does.

I can tell by the number he called from that he has borrowed someone's phone and so I can't get ahold of him. Therefore I leave a pissed off VM at his house, knowing he won't hear it. After awhile I calm down a bit, and leave another VM at his house saying I'm not quite so pissed anymore. At about 4:15, he calls me. They are rushing to get back to his house, I should meet them there. So,I drive over and pull up in front of his apartment and wait. I have brought along the latest New Yorker for exactly this purpose. In a couple of minutes father and son come walking up, all out of breath. The kidlet is sporting a new haircut, and they both look pretty cute.

"We need to go in and change, and I have to wrap a gift, give us 15 minutes" says V.

"OK, fine. Whatever." I respond, holding tightly to my righteous indignation.

After a bit, they come down, the ex smelling of cologne, and the kidlet in fresh clothes. They are carrying a silver-wrapped package. The kidlet's dad is complaining that he had to wrap it really fast, and he didn't have time to do it very well, and he feels bad about this.

"The birthday girl won't care," I tell him as we zoom off. As we drive, I am starting to feel sympathetic towards him. He is probably somewhat nervous, he hasn't seen S. in forever, and there will be a million people there he doesn't know (though this is a large Mexican party, with yummy homemade Mexican food--a situation entirely familiar to him in that regard), it is always kind of awkward to be doing things with your ex wife, etc. As is our custom, we don't say too much during the drive. I make some small talk about the kidlet's kindergarten experiences, but that's about it.

Finally, we arrive at the party, a little over an hour late. We walk up to the gate, we peer inside the yard, and guess what is happening? No one is there. There are some tables set up, some paper plates, a couple of large pots, folding chairs, but no party is in progress. V. glares at me. I shrug my shoulders. Of course, this is Mexican party, no one is going to show up on time, except of course, we gringas--the only guests there before us are my other white girlfriends. I got my panties in a big huge wad for nothing, and now the righteous indignation belongs to V., who is so upset with me, that I decide to bring him a beer, something I refused to do when we were married because it so represented the subserviant Mexican wife thing.

V. proceeded to tell anyone who would listen how I rushed him to get here, not even letting him wrap the birthday present properly (which, by the way, the naughty birthday girl opened without permission about five minutes after we arrived), and look what a bad person I am for having purposely put him through all of that rushing and stress, all for naught, blah blah, can you belive these gringas?

I did the only logical thing one could do to save the afternoon: grabbed the hostess and headed off for the liquor store.